Page 53 of Shifting Sands

I smile against his mouth. “You mean this?” I say, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands come up to cup the sides of my face, and he tilts my head as he takes over the kiss. His tongue wrestling with mine.

Because neither of us wants to say it. That somewhere between greasy fingers over a bag lunch, sunset boat rides, and cats falling in love with him, this fling has grown into something else.

When we finally come up for air, his arms wrap around me, and I sink against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

We sit like that for a while, tangled up in the quiet, the cats still asleep around us, the light glowing from the television neither of us is paying attention to.

And right now, in this moment, I don’t need to have it all figured out.

Right now, it’s enough that he’s here.

And maybe later—when he’s ready—he’ll let me see the rest of his world.

Brew

Iwake up to the sound of the wind softly brushing against the window next to the bed. The sky outside is a pale blue, and the sun kisses the curtains as morning just begins to stretch its arms. Everything’s quiet. Still.

Brandee’s curled up beside me, tangled half in the sheets and half with me. Her bare legs are tucked under mine, one arm draped over my chest, her face pressed into my shoulder like she belongs there. My shirt hangs off her—one shoulder exposed, collar loose, buttons half done. It’s mine, but it looks better on her. Somehow both sweet and sexy, like she is just that way without trying.

Her breath is whispered and steady, lips parted slightly. She smells like the ocean and vanilla. My fingers twitch to brush the hair from her face, but I don’t. I don’t want to wake her. I just lie there for a minute, enjoying the weight of her against me.

I don’t know what this is—what we’re doing. I told myself it was casual. Fun. A fling with a beautiful stranger—or whatever you call it when you aren’t supposed to feel too much.

But lying here with her? It doesn’t feel casual.

It feels real.

And that’s a little terrifying.

I ease out from under her gently, careful not to jostle her too much. She mumbles something and rolls over, clutching a pillow to her chest, still half draped in my shirt. I pause, watching her breathe, wondering how this all happened. I’m usually pretty good at keeping emotions out of my relationships. I enjoy the company of women. I do. But I’ve never had a pull toward one like I do this woman.

I head to the kitchen because if I’m going to think this hard, this early, I need coffee.

The floor creaks under my feet, and I wince a little. The old house isn’t built for sneaking around. Still, I make it to the kitchen without waking the beautiful brunette currently recovering from last night’s escapades. I rub the sleep from my eyes and find the coffeepot, then dig around in the cupboard until I find the tin of grounds.

Mornings like this used to be quiet, even lonely. I’d sit on the deck of my house, watch the tide roll in. Just me and my coffee, but today, there’s a second mug on the counter.

There’s a cat twirling around my legs and a pair of boots sitting with my old sneakers by the back door.

And I like it.

The smell of coffee fills the room. I lean against the counter, a fresh mug in hand. My thoughts are spinning when I hear the faint pad of footsteps down the hall.

Then her voice—husky, sleepy, perfect.

“You made coffee?” she says, leaning against the doorway, rubbing her eyes.

I turn, and there she is. Hair all messy, legs bare, still in my shirt. My heart stutters a little.

“Guilty,” I say. “But I was gonna bring you a cup.”

She smiles, walks over, and steals mine instead. Her hands wrap around the mug, and she takes a measured sip, sighing like it’s the best thing she’s tasted all year.

“Mmm.”

“You slept hard,” I say, watching her slide onto a stool at the island.

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